


Schrodinger's Tunnel

by DragonTail



Series: Transformers: RID [7]
Category: Transformers (Unicron Trilogy), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 06:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonTail/pseuds/DragonTail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It might be a paradox, but only for the observer. He’s got infinite quantum possibilities waiting to collapse. All the cat’s got are four walls, a floor, a ceiling and a 50/50 chance of suffocating. Right now, we’re <i>all</i> cats."</p>
<p>Trapped deep beneath the Earth's surface, the Autobots and Terrorcons are running out of oxygen, Energon and hope. Stuck in Autobot headquarters, Koji Jones is running out of excuses. Tied down by his own obsessions, Sky Shadow is running out of options. But for Rodimus - heir apparent to the Creation Matrix - time might have run out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_We place a living cat into a steel chamber, along with a device containing a vial of hydrocyanic acid. There is, in the chamber, a very small amount of a radioactive substance. If even a single atom of the substance decays… a hammer will break the vial and kill the cat._

_The scientist observing cannot know whether or not the radioactive substance has decayed and so cannot know if the cat has been killed. Therefore the cat is both dead and alive, according to quantum law. It is only when we break open the box that the cat becomes one or the other, dead or alive._

– “The Observer’s Paradox”, Erwin Schrodinger, 1935

\-----

“Ew.”

Rodimus tapped the substance again. It gave way, just a little, beneath his steely finger. When he pulled away, his digit was coated in a luminous slime; in the half-light of the Global Space Bridge, the residue glowed neon yellow.

“Gross,” he breathed.

“True. But, at the same time, it is a glorious natural indicator of our predicament.”

Usually, the voice would make him reach for his missile launcher. At such close range, it would make him fear for his life. Circumstances were different than the usual, however, so Rodimus just shrugged.

“How do you figure that, Predacon?”

An olive grey muzzle pushed past his shoulder and hovered just above the oily lightshow. Delicate olfactory circuits sniffed at it, taking in its pungent aroma. The dinosaur chuckled softly; the sound was almost nostalgic.

“Your ingenious bridge is not entirely of this world,” Predacon shook his head. “No. I’m somewhat disappointed. Still, it remains a remarkable achievement which I am glad to have acquired for the True Path’s cause.

“In answer to your question, Rodimus, this is a plant. A very special one – the _bolphunga._ It grows on a distant world that is rich in minerals but very, very low in oxygen. I’d wager your Build Team visited the spot to get the supplies it needed for this very tunnel system.”

Predacon coughed, then continued. “The _bolphunga_ flourishes in that inhospitable place, but lies dormant in air-rich environments. Its presence here would suggest spores clung to the Build Team and migrated here to Earth. That it would flourish at this time indicates just how low our oxygen level has become.”

Rodimus – weak not from lack of air, but Energon – regarded his foe. “I never picked you for the type of mech who’d stop and smell the _bolphunga_ ,” he quipped.

The Transmetal smirked. “Xenobotany was… a hobby of mine,” he wheezed. “A lifetime or so ago. Yes.”

Both fell silent. There was little to say. Predacon struggled to breathe; Rodimus struggled with his guilt.

_We were so determined to take them out,_ he thought miserably. _Sure, we had to take away their advantage – the rapid self-repairing abilities given by their technorganic natures. And, yes, we could never have predicted us being trapped here, inside the Global Space Bridge, with a rapidly depleting oxygen supply. But those two things have combined, now, into a great big mess. Instead of incapacitating the Terrorcons, we’re going to be responsible for killing them. An entirely new form of life… disgusting though it may be… gone in one fell swoop. Our fault._

Not for the first time, the young cavalier wished Ultra Magnus was with them – and wondered where his leader had gone. _He rushed off, muttering something about Snarl,_ Rodimus thought. _But that was hours ago. I hope he’s all right._

"You’re very quiet, Autobot,” Predacon whispered.

“Not much to say, Terrorcon,” Rodimus mumbled. He wiped lubricant from his face, trying in vain to stop it trickling into his optics. His hands were shaking.

“Ah. No, I suppose not. Especially not in this situation.” The saurian sat down heavily, resting back on the tunnel wall and squelching the _bolphunga._ “I’ll admit I’m surprised. Yes. I’d have thought you Autobots have faced death enough times to be able to laugh in the face of the reaper.”

“Our own deaths? Definitely. Causing the deaths of others? Not so much.”

“The essential difference between our species,” Predacon sighed. “Defined, here, in a tunnel being rapidly drained of its resources. A war in microcosm. How utterly droll.”

They were silent again for a time. Rodimus found himself looking down the tunnel… past the suffocating Terrorcons and lethargic, Energon-starved Autobots… and trying to pierce the inky void beyond. “Do you think they’ll make it?”

Predacon coughed wetly. “The plan is sound, the choice of warriors makes sense,” he rasped. “Sky Shadow is the least organic of the followers I have present – a necessity given his need to operate in high altitudes. He is… oxygen efficient, you might say. And your mech, Downshift…” He chuckled again. “That one is full of surprises.”

_That’s an understatement,_ Rodimus groused. The engineer had surprised them all with his revelations.

First, he’d explained their predicament. The GSB sealed off only in the event of a massive catastrophe – meaning the world above them was in a less than pleasant state, and they had no access to Energon. In addition, the tunnels would lose their oxygen – damning the Terrorcons to suffocation. Weakened, as they were, by hours of battle, none of them would survive long.

“But I might have a solution,” Downshift had said, the displays on either side of his head twinkling. “Provided I can make it down to the core, that is. The Build Team had the foresight to place a secondary control system _inside_ the GSB, in case of this sort of incident. Down really deep, safe from radiation. I throw a couple of switches, trip a few levers and we should be out before anyone drops into stasis lock.”

Armourhide had, as usual, been pessimistic. “And just how are you gonna do dat, when we’re all runnin’ on _fumes_ here?” he’d demanded, his whole body jittering with energy deprivation.

Downshift had toed the ground uncomfortably. “I’ve got plenty of power,” he’d finally admitted. “I’ve got two back-up Energon tanks in this chassis – one in each leg. That should be enough to get me there and back…”

“ _Two_ tanks? Sweet Primus!” Armourhide had roared. “How much else ya got goin’ on under there, grater face? Huh?” He’d stormed across and jabbed a stubby finger at the engineer. “You tell us you’re making yourself into Frankenstein’s monster to improve the race, but I’m thinkin’ yer setting yerself up as the ultimate survivor of this little war, irrespective o’ who gets slagged along the way!”

Rodimus and Jazz had stepped in at that moment, all but dragging the infuriated commando away. Scattorshot, their de facto leader, had approved Downshift’s plan of attack – and not disguised his discomfort over the number of secrets being kept. Predacon had spoken up about a Terrorcon presence, Sky Shadow had volunteered – being a “fellow scientist” – and the rest, as they say, was history.

“It’d be nice if there were no more surprises,” Rodimus muttered.

Predacon ground his teeth together. “A foolish hope,” he hissed.

\-----

“Your man Schrodinger,” Sky Shadow mused, “would have been appreciated by Predacon, I believe.”

“How do you figure that?”

“His theory meshes well with the Path. An animal whose existence is dependant upon machinery… machinery whose purpose is defined by its affect on the animal… infinite possibilities that, when examined closely, collapse into one unassailable truth.” He coughed, the action shaking his entire chassis. “It is almost technorganic, in its own way.”

“Mm,” Downshift grunted.

The engineer had been frustratingly silent for much of their trip. He’d insisted upon remaining in his alternate mode – an emerald green muscle car – so he could “use his headlights”. Aside from a brief discussion of Schrodinger and his doomed feline, Downshift had rebuffed any attempts at conversation and driven on, forcing the jet to stride quickly if he wanted to keep pace.

None of which meshed with Sky Shadow’s needs. He’d made the Autobot an offer… extended an olive branch of peace and co-operation… that would cost his life, were Predacon to discover his duplicity.

The dinosaur’s aid had been a boon, certainly, to his research. Self-mutilation had proved the most effective method of crossing the thresh hold between the worlds of life and death, but it was bad for his long-term health. Embracing the Transmetal process, meanwhile, had been as Predacon promised years before…

_“Your attempts at contacting the Sparks of the deceased have been… stymied… at every turn because you can’t transcend the limitations of metal. I have done just that, yes. And so have my followers. The True Path leads to enlightenment, Sky Shadow… a higher plane of existence. Surely, your science and mine could combine to carry you that final step to… your dearly departed?”_

Taking on flesh had provided a better solution. Sky Shadow could torture his organic wings to the point of death, ride the resultant synaptic wave and leave his vital systems unaffected. The Path had allowed him to take the final step toward a reunion with his old, dead friend, Overcast.

_Toward_ the reunion… but not _over_ the River Styx. Even Predacon’s assistance floundered at the pivotal moment. Sky Shadow had vowed, a decade earlier, that outside concerns would not interfere with his goals. Allegiance to the True Path was one such outside concern – it held no great import for him. If betraying his colleagues would give him just one more moment with Overcast, any and all consequences would be worthwhile.

And so he’d approached Downshift – a being who had installed within himself a receptacle for souls, such was his obsession with preserving life. Sky Shadow knew, only too well, the torment that powered Downshift’s Spark; that spurred him into ever more paranoid research and invention. He wanted use of that manic energy, time to combine it with his esoteric knowledge and develop a way to bring Overcast back to the corporeal world. He’d taken the ultimate risk by handing over the cylinder – a gesture that could not be withdrawn.

Downshift had yet to respond.

Time, for Sky Shadow, was running out. His internal systems spoke of critical failure; of cellular death corrupting delicate circuitry. The relationship between a Transmetal and its flesh was symbiotic – one could not survive without the other. And while he required less oxygen than his brethren, Sky Shadow had also abused his organic components far more. They had been weakened long before the battle, his bat-like wings, and would claim his Spark if they died.

He could ill afford that, though it would mean a reunion with Overcast. He believed in an afterlife, but Sky Shadow had no wish to be part of it. His goal was to bring the dead _back_ to life, not join their ranks.

“I’m starting to think Schrodinger was wrong,” Downshift said suddenly.

“Yes?” Sky Shadow replied.

“Well, he said the cat in the box is both alive and dead until someone takes a peep,” the car continued. “That’s all well and good for him – he’s on the outside, he’s the one who gets to take a peep. He’s not the cat breathing poison gas.

“It might be a paradox, but only for the observer. He’s got infinite quantum possibilities waiting to collapse. All the cat’s got are four walls, a floor, a ceiling and a 50/50 chance of suffocating. It’s either going to vomit blood or wait nervously to die. Either way, the little animal’s screwed permanently.”

“And you know all this because?”

Downshift snorted. “Look around you, Sky Shadow. Right now, we’re all cats.”

\-----

“If I was an amphibian, you could pour water over me and I’d be fine,” Insecticon grumbled.

“If Jazz’s flamethrower was still working, I’d torch your buggy skid plate and save us all some audio feedback,” Armourhide snapped. “Just suffocate quietly, will ya?”

Rodimus, listening from some distance away, shook his head. “No situation,” he muttered, “is so bad that Armourhide’s attitude can’t make it worse.”

“Insecticon is little better,” Predacon growled. He’d transformed to robot mode and sat back against the wall. The _bolphunga_ had been squelched. The zealot’s clawed toes tapped out a staccato beat on the bitumen. “For a time, I harboured the belief he was some kind of double agent. The sort of mech who’d feed information to you Autobots in an effort to frustrate my plans.” He sighed loudly. “But that was not the case, no. Our time on Earth, spent undetected, is proof of that. If my six-legged student is whispering to others, they bear not your… red mask.”

The shivering cavalier thought about that for a moment. “Just how long _have_ you been here? I mean, we’ve been working behind the scenes for a decade. You?”

Predacon laughed breathily. “An utterly transparent attempt to use our alliance of convenience as a means of gleaning information from an enemy commander. It was lacking in subtlety, but a deception nonetheless. I approve, Autobot. Yes.” He shook his head. “But you’ll glean nothing from me.”

Rodimus shrugged. “Worth a try, eh?”

Voices, raised in anger, caught their attention. Armourhide had flipped Insecticon over and was punching his fragile underbelly. A frail-looking Skid-Z was feebly trying to prise him off.

Again, Predacon sighed. “Wreckloose will be the first to die,” he said sadly, pointing toward the centre of the road. The moose lizard was lying there, gasping desperately, gratefully accepting breaths of air from Battle Ravage’s lungs. “More so than any of my other students, he has embraced the Path. Most of his body is comprised of savage predator’s flesh, to the point where he is more cybernetic than technorganic. A truly noble individual.”

The Autobot hung his head, feeling guilty once more. “We never came here with the intention of annihilating you,” he said.

“It’s nice that you’d think that,” Predacon replied. “The truth, however, is much different. Yes. All races fear that which is beyond their understanding. In their feeble-minded attempts to categorise the new, they decry it as evil… or grotesque. Much like you and the _bolphunga_ earlier.”

Rodimus winced.

“Your goal was to eradicate the ‘organic infestation’ that had besmirched your tunnels, whatever your stated intentions. Your weapons prove this, if nothing else. Either you completely fail to understand an organic creature’s need for air, or you are willing to exploit that quality to its fatal conclusion. The Autobot Earthforce is either ignorant or callous, and neither is an admirable trait for supposed heroes.”

He lifted his arm and pointed his tail whip at the scuffling Transformers. The weapon straightened, went rigid, and glowed with purple light. A second later, a laser burst erupted from its clawed tip and detonated by the combatants, leaving them dumbfounded.

“Sit. Down.” Predacon sneered.

They did as they were told, muttering angrily to themselves. No one stopped to turn Insecticon back over.

“Dude, that little stunt just burned up some of your air,” Jazz admonished. He was sitting on the other side of the tunnel, and leaning on one of the support arches. The covert operative had his arms wrapped tightly around his chest plate and was rocking back and forth, teeth chattering.

“Not as much air as that rabble was wasting with their fighting,” Predacon replied.

Tiny footsteps echoed through the area as Scattorshot staggered toward them. “It might not occur to a ‘con such as yerself,” the diminutive mech drawled, “but there ‘r better t’ calm squabblin’ troops than loosin’ a round o’ plasma in their faces.”

Predacon merely grinned. “You lead your way, Scattorshot, and I’ll lead mine,” he said pleasantly. “This is an alliance, not a total ceding of command. Nor a surrender.”

Scattorshot threw up his hands. “You just cain’t win with Terrorcons.”

“I’ll hold you to that, when the war resumes,” Predacon leered. “Speaking of temporary victories… how fares your prisoner, Divebomb? No major problems with his incarceration, I trust?”

Rodimus and Scattorshot swapped ill glances. “We left him alone with Snarl and Koji,” the cavalier said over the inter-Autobot radio.

“ ’Cept Snarl ain’t there no more, accordin’ to Magnus,” Scattorshot added. “Meanin’ we left th’ base and th’ mist dangerous prisoner we’ve had since Tidal Wave in th’ care of a nine-year-old kid.”

\-----

Why weren’t they back yet? And, assuming they had good reason for still being gone, why hadn’t anyone bothered to check in on him?

Koji was lying flat on his stomach, on his bed, and staring at the wall. His arms were crossed over his pillow, his head propped atop them. Every now and again he’d kick his feet, hard enough to slip his shoes over his ankles but not so rigorously that his footwear would fall off. His mum had called it his “thinking pose” and he hadn’t disagreed. Many a school assignment and problematic video game had been completed thanks to a short break and sliding shoes.

The old ways weren’t about to help with this problem. He’d screwed up, big time. In trusting Snarl, Koji had unleashed a crazy man… sorry, mech… on the outside world. Ultra Magnus had been _pissed_ about it and sent the boy to his room. Koji hadn’t moved for fear of the giant’s return. But that had been hours ago, and the massive base was deathly silent.

Save for the cackling noise floating up the elevator shaft.

He wanted to go and investigate, even though he knew he shouldn’t. Though it was highly unlikely he could increase his mistake, a slim chance was still a chance.

_Then again…_ The noise was probably coming from the cell block. The cell block was home to a prisoner. The prisoner was Divebomb. Divebomb was a Terrorcon. The Terrorcons had kidnapped Koji’s parents. And Divebomb likely knew where they were.

Koji furrowed his brow. Magnus could be as angry as he liked. Snarl could be as tricky as he wanted. Neither was particularly interested in locating Joshua and Misha Jones. If his parents were to ever be rescued, he’d have to take action himself.

He flipped around on the bed, pulled his shoes on properly and tightened the laces. On his way through the human-sized living quarters, Koji grabbed a kitchen chair and dragged it along behind. He’d need to stand on it in order to reach the elevator controls and ride down to the detention block.

Besides… he wanted to be comfortable while he and Divebomb had their little chat.

\-----

“Just when you thought dis couldn’t get any worse,” Armourhide moaned.

“Tell me somethin’ I don’t know,” Jazz said. His desperation was obvious. “Scattorshot, we gotta get back to the base, and now. Snarl’s already managed to get out of there somehow… if Divebomb busts out too, Koji’s done for!”

Rodimus looked down at their commanding officer. Before the Autobots had gathered for this little confab, the smaller mech had shared a suspicion or two with the cavalier. Dark, unpleasant suspicions. Divebomb, he’d felt, was already out – likely released by Snarl, who was some kind of deep-cover Terrorcon agent. It was likely the kid was already dead. But telling Jazz that would emotionally cripple the covert-ops specialist, and so Rodimus had agreed to keep it quiet.

“Don’t pop yer rivets, Jazz,” Scattorshot said, spreading his hands to placate the black Bugatti. “The truth o’ the matter is we’re stuck, whether we like it or not. We gotta focus on what we _can_ do, here and now, to survive. Otherwise we ain’t no good to Koji nor anyone else. Okay?”

Jazz’s optics darkened behind his visor. “Quit patronising me, Scattorshot,” he yelled, shoving his colleague with both hands. “I don’t need none o’ your sympathy, hear? I’m the mech who wrote the damn datatrack on stayin’ mission-focused, all right? An’ I was _runnin’_ whole outfits – covert outfits, might I add – before you got yo’ fancy Force Chip and new eyeballs. You ain’t got to be telling me how to stay on the job, little mech. Truth is, if it weren’t for yo’ boy Magnus, I’d be 2IC in these parts… ‘specially if Optimus were here. He’d want his go-to guy to be the reigning expert on the local surrounds. So _watch yo’self._ ”

Scattorshot bristled. His whole body tensed and was surrounded by a glowing blue nimbus. Rodimus laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder, seeking to calm him, but it was pushed away brusquely.

“You questionin’ me, soldier?” Scattorshot rumbled, sounding just like Magnus.

“Better than that,” Jazz growled, leaning right down into his face. “I’m questioning your right to _pretend_ to be our leader!”

The glow around Scattorshot grew brighter – his Force Chip was seconds away from manifesting. Obviously, its power came from somewhere other than the chassis of its owner. Panels flew from Jazz’s shoulders as his missile launchers locked into place and tried to power up.

“Cripes,” Armourhide exclaimed. “T’ings ain’t _dat_ bad, guys!”

The commando grabbed Jazz around the waist and heaved. Rodimus pulled Scattorshot back. “What the frell’s gotten into the bot of you?” he demanded. “Are you both so low on Energon that your processors have stopped spinning?”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than he felt light-headed. It was as if all the Energon had been sucked from his frame, out his feet, and allowed to bleed off into the atmosphere.

“Rodimus?” Armourhide’s voice was distorted, as if he was slurring. The cavalier realised it was his audio sensors, not his friend’s synthesiser, that was the problem.

“Don’t… feel so good,” he managed to gasp.

The others forgot their argument and pushed forward to catch him. Rodimus saw Predacon draw in close, trying to see between the crowd of Autobot bodies. His last visual image, as the world went dark, was of the dinosaur’s glowing red eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

“Apologies, Rodimus. I should have warned you of what was about to happen, but the situation is dire. I hope you understand.”

He opened his optics. It had been 10 long years since he’d last looked upon that regal face, but time had done nothing to diminish Rodimus’ memory.

“Optimus Prime,” he breathed.

“It’s good to see you,” the Autobot leader said. Rodimus could imagine a slight smile beneath the older mech’s mask-like faceplate. “I only wish we’d met again in better circumstances.”

Rodimus looked around… and up… and down. He appeared to be suspended in mid-air, near the curved ceiling of a half-spherical room. The colours on the walls shifted from black to white, reminding him of a monochromatic lava lamp. The opposing hues met but did not mix – instead, their swirling gave off vivid jets of rainbow gas that filled the room before evaporating.

“Where…”

“Are we?” Optimus finished. “To be honest, we’re in no place at all. Rather, we’re in a conceptual space. Your Matrix-enhanced processor is displaying it all as visual stimuli so your psychic circuit-breakers don’t trip.”

Rodimus marvelled at that. “It feels familiar,” he whispered.

Optimus floated closer. His crimson armour was dotted with condensation. “It should. This is, quite literally, what is inside Ultra Magnus’ head,” he breathed. “It’s an interpretation, of course, but it might just be the best description of my brother available.”

“I think I get it,” Rodimus said. He pointed to the floor. “A solid, rigid foundation – the discipline of a soldier.” He gestured to the walls. “Smooth, flexible lines – compassion, selflessness, ability to change. I don’t quite understand the colours, though.”

“Fluid thought,” Optimus said, “The black represents his self-doubt; the white his inestimable abilities. Where they meet… but do not mix… they give off the ideas, tactics and plans for which he is renowned.”

“Rainbows of improvisation,” Rodimus gasped. “Wow.”

“One of the things you will learn, Rodimus, is that every Transformer has a world like this within them,” Optimus intoned. “Peace will come from bridging these internal spaces, lining Transformer to Transformer, until all are one.”

“But that’s some ways off. So why are we here, right now? What’s going on?”

Optimus’ optics dimmed. “Magnus has been killed,” he said.

“No!”

“I’m not really sure what has transpired,” the Autobot leader continued. “I was in my quarters, on Gigalonia, when I heard him cry out. A scream of pain that came not from the Matrix, but my very Spark.”

“The Binary Spark.”

“Yes.” He pointed down. Set into the centre of the floor was a large, pulsing orb of light, shot through with blue lightning. It was bright, but Rodimus had the distinct impression it should glow with a near blinding illumination. Already, the orb… the Spark… had dimmed significantly.

“I thought I could save my brother, by myself. I wanted to use my grip on the Matrix energy that flows in us all to keep his half of the Spark alive, long enough for back-up to arrive,” Optimus said heavily. “But the effort was too much for me… the distance too great. I needed help.”

At last, Rodimus understood. “So you pulled me in. I don’t mind, just so’s you know.”

Optimus actually chuckled at that. “Thank you. Our combined energies, our experience in the Templar ways, should be able to sustain Magnus’ Spark until your team can reach and repair him. Can you give me an ETA?”

Rodimus grimaced. “You’re not going to like the answer to that, Prime.”

\-----

There was no way, Jazz had found, to compare Energon with any kind of human sustenance.

He’d whiled away many a lazy hour, here on his adopted home world, pondering the dilemma. Humans relied on several different types of nourishment to stay alive. They needed food – a broad group of substances containing everything from vitamins to roughage – and water. They needed blood and oxygen. All to keep their cute little meaty bodies running right, so their souls could keep on experiencing the world around them.

Energon was like food, water and oxygen all rolled into one. Sort of. Really, it wasn’t like any of them. For Energon was also a weapon, a currency, a political bargaining chip, a platform for experimentation, a way of powering starships. It was the great leveller.

The only local species who came close to aping the need for Energon, Jazz thought, was the humble Australian koala. Every need they had in life came from eucalyptus leaves. Should they evolve to the point of using gum trees as cash and rocket fuel, they might be the sort of trading partners the Autobots would want.

Jazz started to laugh at his silliness, but stopped when another chill ran through him. He huddled deeper into his corner and pulled his arms tighter around his body. If he applied enough of his formidable strength to the task, he might be able to stop the shivers.

Energon starvation was like no other sickness. It didn’t kill you – it _deactivated_ you, one diode at a time, over hours and days. _Painful_ hours and days. _Agonising_ seconds and minutes.

Especially if the starvation came right on the heels of a big fight. During battle, a Transformer’s internal systems re-routed Energon to where it was most needed, when it was most needed. Time to run? Power diverted to legs and wheels. Have to lay down cover fire? A surge of liquid power to the synapses – improving reaction time – and trigger finger. Hand to hand? Arms and shoulders, baby.

All of which meant that, when the fighting was done, the Energon in a Transformer’s body was split over a hundred different locations. Sometimes there just wasn’t enough to go around… not even to flow back to essential systems. Like the ones that took a body off-line, dropping it into safe, comfortable stasis lock until re-energising could take place.

That was the predicament Jazz and the other ‘bots were in, right now… the malady that had likely felled Rodimus, just a few minutes ago. He could see the others milling around the cavalier. Though he care deeply for the young ‘bot, and counted him among his closest friends, Jazz saw no point in crowding the scene. He wasn’t a medic; he had no business trying to interfere.

Worst part about Energon starvation? The end of it. Desperate for energy, craving power of any kind, a Transformer’s body would self-cannibalise. First it would burn all internal oils and lubricants. The mech would seize up painfully – after a few spine-bending fits, of course. Then came the real horror: the ravenous systems started _consuming the Spark_ of their owner. Just as a human stomach fed on itself, a Transformer robbed of stasis lock would involuntarily swallow its own soul, just to try and stay online.

Jazz shivered again… this time from fear. It wasn’t his idea of a good death. Too long and drawn-out… protracted horror on a cellular level. No, when he checked into the Matrix, it was going to be quick and clean. A shot to the head, or the pump, or…

 _Don’t you be going there, boy,_ said a voice in his head. _Ain’t no sense in thinkin’ that way, ‘cause you know you only gonna…_

But it was too late. He let out a low, sorrowful moan as the dark thoughts came back. A thousand images spilled from his processor and played out, one atop the other, across the inside of his visor. Oil-splattered Decepticon badges. Headless mechs toppling like tenpins. Small, dark chambers with nothing but a chair, a halogen lamp and unspeakable instruments. Looped, knotted lengths of chain. Pile upon pile of bodies.

He unwrapped his arms from his chest and pushed his hands into his aural sensors. It didn’t work – it never had. Jazz’s entire miserable, oil-thirsty, covert, “wet works” life played out in black and white, even when he shut his optics off. He’d been lucky enough to dodge CINS, spare himself that kind of processor-bending torment – Red Alert had confirmed that diagnosis. That didn’t mean his sinful existence was any easier to cope with. He had no mental illness, only a lifetime of horrid memories he wanted to expunge.

Jazz… or, rather, Crosswise… was the best deep-cover, black-ops mech the Autobots had. Of that, there was no doubt. He’d spent mega-vorns as the commanding officer of the elite Spychangers. The Wreckers made the history tapes, but the Spychangers got the work done. Mirage, Ox, Hotshot, Wars, Rev… his brothers in arms. Small but tough, as they used to say. The six-sided wheel of unseen death. They’d blend into the background, drive on the underside of off-loops, infiltrate any stronghold, liquidate any target.

Iacon had remained, for nine million years, a glowing symbol of Autobot resistance. Every light, however, cast a shadow, and in Iacon’s darkness stood the Spychangers. For every 10 assaults on the city walls, another 20 failed to get off the ground because of Mirage’s duplicity or Ox’s brutality. Wars could distract the most dedicated Decepticon and lead him into a typically black-humoured trap. Rev made ‘cons chase him until their engines burst; Hotshot simply burned them before they realised he’d arrived on scene.

And Crosswise… the mythical, legendary Crosswise… he was the worst of them all. He could do anything his mechs attempted, and more again. Never had a prisoner withheld information from “Mr Cross”. Never had an operation gone wrong. Never had an anointed target lived to see the next cycle. For a time, he _was_ death.

One day, he found he’d grown deathly sick of being death.

So he’d broken cover, quit the Spychangers, raised his hand to be part of Prime’s core group. His request for reformatting went through without question; he emerged from the CR chamber four times bigger and with a face instead of a mouth plate. Crosswise also had the desire to use that new face for smiling, rather than hiding it away. The opportunity to go to Earth came up and he leaped for it; within weeks, Crosswise faded into history and Jazz stepped into the spotlight.

Koji had been a big part of that. Seeing the little guy come into the world, start to move and think and act and talk, had been a revelation. Sure, he loved Kicker and Misha dearly but they weren’t Koji… they weren’t his little guy. The other mechs thought a human kid was someone to teach. Jazz realised the truth: the baby was someone to learn from. In Koji’s innocence, Jazz found his chance for redemption.

That’s why he _had_ to get out of this tunnel. For Koji’s sake, and for his own. He wasn’t going to die slowly and painfully, and he wasn’t going to abandon his friend – irrespective of how the kid felt about him right now. Jazz was going to live, Koji was going to live, and the Autobots _were_ getting out of the damn tunnel!

Now, he just had to figure out how.

\-----

The elevator ran the length of Fortress Maximus’ central tower. It was as fast as any human-built lift – probably faster – but it didn’t feel that way to Koji. The floors were _so_ far apart, the ceilings so high to allow for the passage of gargantuan robots. It made the trip seem interminable, but the boy made the best of it.

He plotted.

Outwitting Divebomb would be, he figured, simplicity. For a start, he was a bad guy. Everyone knew bad guys yakked at the drop of the hat – give them an opening and they’d burble exposition. They were even more talkative if they thought they had the upper hand. With Divebomb being a Terrorcon and Koji being a human, he’d feel quite superior and likely slip up, revealing stuff he’d intended to keep a secret.

Besides, Koji had plenty of experience in dealing with bad guys. He’d negotiated a really difficult peace accord in _Questhammer IV_ and caused the Bolovaxian Gartrupod to reveal its hidden plan in _Blorgstrike_. He’d even stunned Daniel… well, Jazz… by talking a really gorgeous babe into the hot-tub in _Lethario Lester II_. She wasn’t a bad guy but, according to the graphics they’d seen afterward, she was one heck of a bad girl.

Koji wasn’t expecting problems. He had his chair, and he had his plan of attack. Divebomb would be all too eager to taunt and tease the “helpless human” and, with a bit of nonce, he’d easily give up the location of the Terrorcon headquarters. Then he’d moan and bitch about the nine-year-old boy who’d tricked him like an expert. Easy.

The elevator ground to a halt. The entrance to the detention level loomed large. Koji took a deep breath, picked up his chair, and started walking down the corridor.

\-----

“Why do you hate us so?” Wreckloose panted.

Armourhide looked across at his old rival. He wasn’t much in the mood for discussion. Jazz and Scattorshot’s near-fight had rattled him; reminded him just how dire the situation was. Much of his stubby frame still burned over Downshift’s duplicity.

What the hell was wrong with him? For one, he’d been keeping secrets from the other RIDs. Secondly, his frelling legs were _full_ of Energon – one direct hit and he’d go up like a nuke! Armourhide knew a little about being a walking bomb, and sure as frack didn’t trust Downshift with that kind of responsibility. He was too liable to blow himself up in the lab, let alone on the battlefield. When he _remembered_ to fight, of course.

“We don’t hate you,” he sighed. “Hate is for Decepticons. We’re just not big fans of yer religious ways, to put it politely. More bluntly: yer a bunch of dangerous whack-jobs.”

The moose lizard coughed up a mouthful of blood. He spat a few times, splattering the crimson liquid over the bitumen and down his mottled green body. “That’s what you need to say to satisfy your conscience, huh?” Wreckloose rasped. “You can’t figure out what we’ve become, how we’ve evolved, and so you write us off as dangerous and insane. You’re _bigots,_ all of you.”

“Pfft. Whatever.”

“No, I’m right – you’re bigots,” the lizard continued, propping himself up on one arm. Every word was accompanied by red mist. “You Autobots go on and on about defending the helpless, protecting justice, ending Decepticon tyranny. Here we are – a brand new race, a completely different form of life – and you’re stamping down on us. Limiting us. Bossing us around, trying to stop us from taking our place in the world.”

Armourhide frowned. “Dere ain’t nothing new about yer ‘race’, Wreckloose.”

“You think we’re mere Decepticons, and you’re wrong. We’re…”

Armourhide stood up, using his rifle as a crutch. Wreckloose fell silent as he hobbled closer. Less than a foot away, he realised this was the closest they’d ever been. Theirs had always been a long-distance feud. Armourhide had been behind enemy lines, sabotaging military installations and rescuing political prisoners. Wreckloose had always been a few cycles behind; checking the damage and trailing the “daring commando” whose name appeared atop Tankor’s most-wanted list. They had laid optics on each other but a handful of times, and conversed through messages left as dares.

“I know you ain’t a Decepticon no more, lizard-lips,” he said. “But you ain’t no new kinda master race, neither. Science has already come up with a term for beings like you, and it’s as fittin’ then as it was the day it first got used. Yer _parasites._ ”

Wreckloose’s eyes widened. “What did you say?”

“Parasites. Dat flesh ain’t yours, pal. It belonged ta someone else – some poor little guy you skinned just ta satisfy yer own strange beliefs. An’ you no doubt had to skin ‘im while he was still alive, so’s yer circuits could be linked up t’ da sinew and tendons and nerve fibres. Alla you, yer parasites feedin’ of other living beings, and doin’ so selfishly. Not even the filthiest, nastiest, most dishonourable Decepticon would stoop dat low – they might kill an innocent, sure, but they wouldn’t give it a livin’ death.

“Ain’t nothing bigoted or racist in our viewpoints, chum. And it ain’t about hatred, either. Autobot, Deception, human… we all loathe you freaks because you dole yerselves up in carrion and harp on about bein’ da next step in evolution. Slag that fer a joke. Yer sadistic, twisted jerks who don’t give a frack about anyone else, an’ would rape any and every environment if it suited yer head nutbag’s hokey dogma. Ya need ta be stopped.

“So take yer high-and-mighty martyrdom and stuff it up yer exhaust pipe… or whatever extra orifices ya got dese days,” he spat. “I don’t hate ya, Wreckloose. Truth is, yer _beneath_ my contempt.”

He turned his back and shuffled away, back to where Scattorshot kept fretful watch over Rodimus. The 2IC looked up as he approached. “Eloquent,” he drawled. “Never knew ya had in in ya, little guy.”

Armourhide waved the comment away. “He got me steamed, is all,” he replied. “I done enough bad things in my life. Mechs can hate me for alla dat, is my opinion, rather than makin’ up slag to ease their own consciences.”

\-----

“That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

Sky Shadow had expected something far more grandiose. There were, however, no “bells and whistles” surrounding the Global Space Bridge’s central control module. To all outward appearances, it was no more than a squat, grey, concrete bunker. It was obviously of Gigalonian design – smooth, square walls, perfect in its functionality – but built for far shorter mechs. He’d learned that each member of the Build Team was the size of a regular Transformer; only combined, as a gestalt robot, were they as tall as their planetary brethren. It made sense, then, for the bunker to be relatively small.

Downshift had finally returned to robot mode and was walking cautiously around the structure. Sky Shadow wondered what he was doing. Surely there were no booby traps or external security devices in place – that wasn’t the Autobot way. Besides, this was a structure of last resort, a place to which one fell back in an emergency. Lacing the area with tripwires would likely kill those who sought to be saved.

“Your opinion?” the Terrorcon asked.

It was a long moment before Downshift responded. “It’s not rigged with traps, which is a little silly,” he muttered. “I’d personally have the whole thing linked to a detonator, with walls designed to repel anything not putting out an Autobot energy signature. That way, you’d be able to make sure the riff-raff couldn’t take the place over totally.”

Sky Shadow shook his head. “Speaking as a member of the riff-raff,” he said distastefully, “I’m pleased the rest of your kind doesn’t share your paranoia.”

“It’s only paranoia when they’re not out to get you,” Downshift answered distractedly. He was probing the bunker’s foundation with some kind of tool. “And when it comes to the Cybertronian wars, everyone _is_ out to get you.”

“Like your friend Armourhide?” Sky Shadow asked. “That little exchange, before we left, looked decidedly… unpleasant.”

The engineer screwed up his face. “Little twerp,” he spat.

“All the more reason for you to take me up on my offer,” the jet said carefully. “You’re already in a position where your colleagues fail to understand your genius, your higher grasp of the universe around them…”

“Says the mech who just called me paranoid.”

Sky Shadow coughed. “I’m _trying_ to understand you, Downshift. Your so-called friends gave up on that a long, long time ago. They see you as a lunatic, while I think of you as merely… eccentric. Believe me, that is high praise from one who’s spent his existence trying to achieve what the polite would call ‘digital voodoo’.”

To his surprise, Downshift laughed.

“We’re two of a kind, engineer,” Sky Shadow pressed on, his confidence rising. “Our goals are highly compatible. You want to prolong and preserve life, well past the point of death. That you volunteered for this mission, that you were the only one adequately equipped for it, shows I’m correct.

“My goal is to _amend_ death, return those who have slipped past our initial grasp. Think of what our mutual findings could do! Transformers need not die, need never join with the Matrix or any such mystical nonsense. Should their Sparks be dimmed, your techniques can save them. Should their Sparks go out, that which we create together can return them to their chassis!

“Death would cease to be a state of being, and instead become a momentary inconvenience! Our race is already practically immortal… why not complete the circuit, solder the last few wires, and evolve all Transformers?”

Once more, Downshift was frustratingly silent.

 _Does he understand?_ Sky Shadow wondered. _Can he comprehend? I have my own agenda, true, and I have no intention of deviating from it. But his goals could be achieved along the way, in concert with mine._

“I’ll make you a deal,” the engineer said.

Sky Shadow looked up hopefully.

“If the pair of us can survive this bunker, I’ll give your offer some serious thought.”

The Terrorcon smirked. “You’re joking. Surely. This is just a concrete box.”

“A concrete box,” Downshift said, waggling a finger, “that might well cost us our lives.” His voice took on the timbre of a lecturer. “You’re right, there are no traps… so to speak. But there’s a couple of unique design features that, in our present situation, make this a possibly fatal endeavour.”

“Please, no more riddles or cryptic talk,” Sky Shadow sighed. “Get to the point.”

“Okay.” The Autobot walked across to the bunker’s steel door. “There’s a lever set into this wall. We crack the concrete, pull the lever down, and the door opens.”

“Simple so far.”

“Not really. From what I can tell, that door’s not only eight foot thick, it’s also set up with an independent gravity generator. The idea being to keep the door down and locked, and the delicate instruments in the bunker safe, in the event of a planetary incident. Should one occur…”

“The gravity generator activates, and is therefore activated right now.”

“Top marks,” Downshift quipped. “It presents no problem to a robust, healthy Transformer – thing is, neither of us qualify right now. You’re operating on half your systems and me… well, I’ve saved myself from Energon starvation, provided I rest up. Pulling that lever down, hauling that door up, is going to put me right over the red line.”

“Couldn’t we set up some kind of temporary Energon transfer?” Sky Shadow wondered aloud. “Re-direct some of your power to one of my arms, just momentarily, and then beam it straight back? If done quick enough, you’d easily survive.”

“Which would be all well and good, except you’re forgetting the side effect of localised gravity field generators.”

Sky Shadow thought for a moment, then slapped his forehead in anger. “Activating the mechanism creates a total vacuum in the area,” he growled. “There’s no air in the bunker. If we open that door, what little oxygen is out here will go in there, and I’ll suffocate.”

“And so you see the problem,” Downshift murmured. “Right now, we’re both dead and alive. The minute we open that box, the quantum possibilities collapse and our deaths are guaranteed. It’s not poison gas, but it’s just as sucky.”

Another coughing fit seized Sky Shadow – brought on by panic. He sat down and rested against the side of the bunker. “Schrodinger’s box,” he wheezed. “This is hopeless. We can’t even call the others for help… none of them have enough energy to make it this deep into the tunnel system.”

Downshift looked at him thoughtfully. “Actually, there is one thing we could try. It all depends on how much you’re prepared to trust me.”

With a hiss and a cloud of evaporating coolant, Downshift’s front grille split in half and cracked open to reveal a glowing Energon claw. Its orange grippers were serrated and studded with all manner of tools. In the centre of the pincers was a small, sharp-tipped cone, around which crackled eldritch energies.

“The Spark catcher,” Sky Shadow rasped.

“First, I take up your Spark and keep it safe,” Downshift said clinically. “Then I use your idea and pump the left-over Energon from your chassis into me. I put your body back a bit, somewhere safe, so it has at least thin air to breathe for a few minutes. Our combined energies let me open the door, I throw the switches inside and we’re all saved. I can see the look on your face, but trust me – it’s the only way, at least on short notice.”

Inwardly, Sky Shadow blanched. Every circuit and cell within his technorganic body twitched and pulsed with nervous energy. _The point is to cheat death, not risk it,_ he thought, panicked. _What if something goes wrong? Has he ever actually used that device to sustain a life – and how does he expect to have enough power to keep us both online and lift that blasted door? Dare I risk it? Worse… dare I not?_


	3. Chapter 3

“I’m gonna die in here. That’s _so_ unfair.”

The tinny voice made Scattorshot turn. Skid-Z was crumpled dejectedly in a corner. Like the Autobots, he was unaffected by the rapidly-dropping oxygen level. The Mini-con was, however, suffering from the same energy starvation as the larger mechs, albeit more quickly. In such a small frame, Spark-consumption occurred sooner.

The RIDs’ second-in-command walked across and threw an arm around Skid-Z. He saw Armourhide shoot him a disgusted glance, but he didn’t care. Scattorshot wasn’t above comforting an enemy. It was only war, after all. There was no call to be inhumane.

“Hang in there, little guy,” he whispered. “Downshift ‘n Sky Shadow’ll reach th’ control room soon, and we’ll be outta here. Yer mech Predacon will have ya re-gassed and fightin’ fit in no time, you’ll see.”

“It’s not fair,” Skid-Z said again. “I’m gonna die like this. It’s not fair.”

“You _ain’t_ gonna die in these tunnels, mech,” Scattorshot repeated, trying to sound like Ultra Magnus. “You hear me?”

The brown car snarled at that; grabbing Scattorshot’s arm and throwing it off. “You dummy,” he glowered, every syllable dripping with venom. “I’m not talking about the _tunnel_ , stupid – I’m talking about being in this rubbish metal body of mine!

“It don’t matter how loyal I am, or how much I fight. I can go on and on about the Path, recite every sacred text backwards and forwards. None of it is worth a slag.”

“Yer right,” Scattorshot said. “I don’t understand.”

“Technorganics, ya big moron! I’m not _compatible_ for the Transmetal process!” He was wailing now. “Predacon says I can’t take on flesh, no matter how much I want to… my chassis keeps rejecting the blessing! Now I’m gonna die here, next to worthless chumps like _you_ , and I’ll _never_ be a Transmetal!”

He rolled onto his front and made low, chugging sounds – the Transformer equivalent of sobbing. Scattorshot was frozen, unsure of what to do. Battle Ravage forced his way between Autobot and Mini-con, growling, and the RID left.

“Told ya dey were crazy-mechs,” Armourhide jeered a minute later, when Scattorshot rejoined his comrades.

“Nucking futz, as the humans say,” Jazz concurred.

“Maybe,” Scattorshot sighed. “Or maybe they’ve just got stronger beliefs ‘n the rest of us. I guess it’s like someone tellin’ us we cain’t be an Autobot or something.”

“Dat’s not da worst thing you can hear,” Armourhide groused. “You get used to it. Besides, ain’t religions supposed ta give ya comfort in dark times, not make it worse?”

“Belief’s all well an’ good,” Jazz agreed quietly, “but it’s no real protection, mind.” He gestured to Rodimus who lay, inert, just behind them. “The kid’s the biggest believer we got and he was the first to drop. Betting all his chips on Primus ain’t done him no good.”

Scattorshot turned his enhanced sensors toward the fallen cavalier. He could “see” waves of Matrix energy – strangely _altered_ Matrix energy – moving in and out of the red and gold chassis. Rodimus’ Spark still registered, albeit faintly. Perhaps it was some kind of side-effect of Energon starvation?

“He bet the house, all right,” the 2IC said finally. “Let’s hope it means he’s in a better place, at th’ very least.”

\-----

“Things are going to get better,” Optimus grunted.

“Good,” Rodimus breathed, fighting back another wave of exhaustion. “I don’t think I can do this much longer.”

The present and future Matrix-bearers stood on either side of the dull orb, deep in the centre of Ultra Magnus’ consciousness. Each had pressed their hands to the smooth surface, willing their energy into it. Like a flame in the wind, the orb had flickered and sparked, each time, before dimming again. It was, Optimus had explained, like keeping a human heart patient alive – small “shocks” to stimulate the victim’s own biology, rather than sending them straight into intensive care.

The trouble was, defibrillators were inanimate machines. Rodimus and Optimus were alive, and each “shock” robbed them of a little more of their own life force. The large, red mech looked, in particular, peaked.

“You okay?” Rodimus grunted.

“Fine,” Optimus growled.

“You look tired. Maybe you should let me…”

“I said I’m _fine_ ,” Prime roared, blasting another pulse into the orb.

 _The slag you are,_ Rodimus thought. He knew how much this… mind meld… was taxing the systems of his own body, far away in the Global Space Bridge tunnels. But it was at least on Earth… Optimus’ physical form was on Gigalonia, millions of light-years away. Force of will kept the Autobot commander’s astral projection solid, but it also stretched his life force over an inconceivable distance. Prime could well die long before help reached Magnus.

_Then what? If Prime dies here, and Magnus’ Spark goes out, and I die in the GSB… who takes over the Autobots? What happens to the Matrix? And if the Decepticons rise up again – or the Terrorcons are free to enact whatever their scheme is – who’s going to lead the charge to stop them? Maybe this Templar stuff is too dangerous, having the three of us linked so intimately. We’re like a chain where all the links are weakened._

“Rodimus,” Prime gasped. “Let me take… more of the strain. Your body is likely… weakening… back in the real world.”

The cavalier arched his back and threw as much energy into the orb as he could. “Forget it, Big Bot,” he grimaced. “We do this together or… not at all! I don’t want to have expended all… this time and energy… saving Magnus, only to have to turn around and… re-fill your gas tank, too!”

Unexpectedly, Optimus laughed. It was strained, and full of pain, but a laugh nonetheless. “All right, then. _Together_.”

With a mutual howl, they poured their life forces into that of their friend. The orb glowed, brighter and brighter. Rodimus did not notice the change in their surroundings, at first, passing it off as the effects of light and shadow. Quickly did he realise the walls were shifting and warping once again.

Black clouds met with white clouds, throwing off jets of rainbow-coloured ideas. The two hues moved with great speed and violence, almost as if they were at war with one another. _Which makes sense, I guess… I had a feeling Magnus hadn’t conquered his doubts so much as he was suppressing them._

“It worked,” Rodimus gasped, slumping to his knees.

“No,” Optimus shook his head, pleased but exhausted. “We kept him alive, but we didn’t bring him _back_ to life. If his processor is working like this, it means someone else has repaired my brother, brought him back on-line.”

“Who?”

“That I can’t say,” Optimus said. Alarmingly, he was turning transparent. “It’s up to you, Rodimus, to answer that question. I must return to my body now, while I still have the energy to do so. I’ll get a message to Cybertron – see if Grimlock can’t rush someone down there to help you all out.”

He was almost invisible. “Till all are one, Rodimus,” he said, and vanished.

The cavalier looked around, a question forming on his ethereal lips. “Umm… Optimus brought me here, right? I didn’t come of my own volition. So how the heck and I supposed to, I dunno, plug back into my processor? Huh?”

Silence. Then:

“ _FLAME CONVOY?_ ”

The words boomed through the half-spherical chamber, echoing and reverberating. Rodimus was buffeted by the sound; his optics were tormented by feverish undulations in the black and white walls. The room had gone from utter stillness to frenetic chaos; the rainbow ideas turning, instead, to jagged bolts of fork lightning. Whatever was going on… whatever had changed… Magnus was _terrified_.

Rodimus rolled out of the way of one lightning bolt… dodged a second… and caught a third full in the chest. He didn’t even have time to cry out in pain before the world turned dark and someone said:

“Let’s hope it means he’s in a better place, at th’ very least.”

“Not so much,” he muttered in reply, “but at least it was a break from you three.”

He heard whoops and cries of delight gush from tired synthesisers. Jazz, Armourhide and Scattorshot clustered around him, full of questions and trying to pull him back upright. Rodimus let them fuss – it’d take their minds off their own predicaments. He waited for the static in his head to pass, smiling all the while.

 _Magnus is alive,_ he thought happily, _and Optimus made it back to his body. If he didn’t, I’d know… I know that I’d know. We’re a chain, the three of us, and we’re stronger than I’d thought. That link will keep the three of us going… just like the link between the RIDs is going to get us out of here. Somehow._

\-----

Koji’s mother had once declared the bonds of family to be unbreakable. It didn’t matter, she said, where he went or what he did – Koji would always be linked not only to her, but his father as well. Even if they were arguing, as per usual.

Looking at the huge, foreboding doorway to the detention block, Koji would rather be doing anything… even fighting with his Dad… other than he was about to do.

A few hundred metres away sat the Terrorcon called Divebomb. The gigantic metal condor was one of the first Transformers that Koji had ever seen. He hadn’t told anyone else that the bird and his partner, the jaguar called Battle Ravage, held a special place in Koji’s nightmares. He was _terrified_ of the pair of them.

He gulped loudly, and heard an echoing laugh in reply. Even caged, Divebomb already knew Koji was on the detention level! The boy’s mind reeled, filling with panic. He pushed it aside, focusing on his goal, drawing strength from the connection to his parents.

 _Mum and Dad._ They’d been missing for weeks now, victims of a Terrorcon kidnapping. None of the Autobots had any idea why their foes would want two human captives, and no demands had made. Misha Jones’ scientific findings had become a matter of public record, so they couldn’t be pumping her for information. Besides, Terrorcons didn’t need as much Energon as the standard Transformer – such a tactic would make no sense. Koji was frightfully worried for their safety, and had to keep convincing himself that they weren’t already dead. _They can’t be,_ he told himself again. _I’d know._

“Is the little boy going to come down and play?”

Divebomb’s lilting, haunting voice floated up the corridor. Koji shivered involuntarily. He knew he shouldn’t be worrying – he had the benefit of experience; the advantage of being underestimated. He was going to trick Divebomb into spilling his guts and giving up all he knew about the kidnapping.

 _Are you?_ asked a voice in his mind. _Are you really?_ It sounded like his father. _Or are you about to make another big mistake, kiddo?_

Koji paused, one foot already through the doorway. He _hated_ the way his father would lecture him. Most of all, he hated the fact the older man was usually right. Every bone-headed stunt Koji wanted to try, Joshua “Kicker” Jones had already done. The boy would get cut off at every pass, saved from all manner of embarrassing goofs, because his father was there to advise, cajole or bully him into another course of action.

Until now.

His dad was gone. He’d ticked off a group of giant, sentient robots through his actions. He’d trusted a big, white wolf that had not only betrayed him, but tried to splatter him across the side of a mountain. Koji’s choices had, so far, been pretty damn poor.

Would this one continue the foul tradition?

“Come on, kid, I know you’re there,” Divebomb called, oozing false friendship. “Come sit a while and let’s chat. I’ll even let you sit close to the bars, if you like.”

Koji had negotiated a really difficult peace accord in _Questhammer IV_. He’d caused the Bolovaxian Gartrupod to reveal its hidden plan in _Blorgstrike_. He’d lured a really gorgeous babe into the hot-tub in _Lethario Lester II_. But those were just video games! Divebomb wasn’t an artificial intelligence, he was an intelligent life form – a stone-cold killer with no morals and even less scruples!

“No thanks, Terrorcon,” he yelled back, stepping fully out of the doorway. “I’m not interested in talking to scum like you. I just wanted to make sure you were still here, and still bored out of your tiny little brain.”

The Terrorcon roared. Koji heard a loud crash, then a sizzle and snap of electricity – the beast had thrown itself at the bars, furious. He grinned and returned to the elevator, setting it for his human-sized quarters.

 _No more screw-ups,_ he told himself. _Ultra Magnus said to go to my room and stay there, and that’s what I’m going to do. That’s what Dad would tell me to do. He and Mum would both want me to trust the Autobots because they know what they’re doing, and I don’t. I may not like it… I never like anything Dad says… but I'll do it, because he’s my Dad. And when he’s not here, I should do what I know he’d say was best._

He slumped in his chair. “I am gonna be in _so_ much trouble,” he moaned.

\-----

Sky Shadow wasn’t able to lay down flat. His chosen alt mode – a large, Earth-style military transport jet – had a very long tail assembly. In robot mode, that tail folded and curled up behind him. Shortround, the destructive little nerd, used to call it “kibble”… but only when he thought his mentor could not hear. Since the incident at the Underbase, the assembly had gained a new ability – it could strike, like a scorpion’s tail, with destructive force. That didn’t make it any less cumbersome, right now.

“Well, then, relax as much as you can,” Downshift urged. “I haven’t done this on a conscious patient yet.” He moved closer. Small lights coalesced in the centre of the Spark catcher, which made a whirring noise.” And seeing as you’re two sizes bigger than me, I don’t want you falling on me. That’d end this little experiment really quickly.”

A shiver ran the length of Sky Shadow’s organic wings. Downshift’s plan made sense and, yes, it was their sole means of survival. But he was uncomfortable risking his personal mortality on an untested gambit. Though he’d once been willing to die in order to meet Overcast, the days of scalding oil baths had passed. The point, now, was to merge his technology with Downshift’s and bring the dead back to life.

A Spark was just a form of energy, after all – it could be neither created nor destroyed. That meant it went _somewhere_ at the moment of permanent stasis lock… a place from which it must be able to be reclaimed. Combining the Spark catcher with his own research – as outlined on the incriminating cylinder – _had_ to be the solution.

He’d never wanted to use the Spark catcher on _himself_ , however.

“All right,” he said, settling onto his rear skid plate, feeling like a marionette with cut strings. “I’m in position. Do… what you must.”

Sky Shadow winced as the claw-like device drew closer. It hissed and crackled; the spike in its centre seemed impossibly long, devastatingly sharp. The claw chattered three times then clamped onto his chest plate.

At once, the Terrorcon felt his perspective _shrink_. A Spark was not located in one place, like a human organ – it diffused itself around the entirety of a Transformers’ body. It was the power that turned inert steel into living metal; its absence the reason a Cybertronian body drained of colour upon death. Sky Shadow felt this sensation, now, from the inside… he could imagine his form turning monochromatic as his sense of self dwindled into a tiny, fist-sized ball in his chest. He tried to cry out, but had no voice.

Something important, something vital, _tore loose_. Through the wrenching pain, Sky Shadow felt weightlessness, flight and, then, capture. He had no senses save pain and vision – his consciousness had been reduced to binocular focus. At the edges of his “peripheral vision” he could see orange lightning, and knew at once the Spark catcher had him. “Looking” in another direction, he could “see” his black-and-white body. It was propped up, a discarded toy, on the concrete floor. His organic wings looked as if they were about to rot and fall off.

A lurching, sickening sensation replaced the pain – Downshift was moving. Quick, skilled hands connected a series of wires and conduits to Sky Shadow’s body, and those wires to a wattage broadcaster. The Terrorcon “watched” the scene in utter silence, robbed of audio stimuli. He could only imagine the ozone smell and cobalt sizzle of power beaming across the gap… at least, until the power reached _him_.

Energon flooded his awareness like never before. Recharging always felt good, but this was… euphoric. A heady rush cleared away the nausea and, through it, hypotheses began to form. _Perhaps,_ he thought, _this is why our race requires Energon and Energon alone. The power feeds our Sparks as much as it fuels the rest of our bodies. Which is why, in the depths of Energon starvation, corrupted systems seek to consume that which is the very core of our being._

Steel bars obscured his “vision”. The sensation of movement returned – he was being drawn back into Downshift’s chest, protected, _contained_. It was an uncomfortable feeling. Being freed from his own body had carried with it unexpected liberation, a desire to… fly away to another place. Perhaps the place where Overcast waited.

As Downshift’s chest grille closed, everything went dark. “Here we go,” echoed a voice, “Primus, wish me luck.”

It was Downshift. He was talking to Sky Shadow, trying to build his courage. The Terrorcon would have laughed if he could – the cat was about to open the box and scratch that blasted Schrodinger to death.

The blackness persisted. Tense, agonising minutes slipped by. Finally, a grunt of satisfied exertion reverberated around him. “Done it,” Downshift whispered. “I’m in. Now to throw those switches and get us all the frell out of here.”

Something in his words rang odd to Sky Shadow. He’d not spent a great deal of time with the engineer, but thought him to be far more articulate in speech. Not the mention far from the sort who’d talk his way through a task, reminding himself of goals and stating the obvious to all and sundry. Were the rumours of his failing sanity true?

_Come to think of it… why can I hear his voice, but no other sound?_

A twinkle of light appeared in the void. Crystalline-blue, it called to him. There was no sensation of movement, this time, but still a feeling of travelling over a distance. The light intensified the “closer” he drew, and began to sketch out lines of spectral elegance. Were he still corporeal, his processor would have idled at the sight… of Overcast.

“Hey, Jetfire,” the warrior-mech grinned.

Sky Shadow was awestruck. Never, in millions of years of trial and error, had he seen his friend _so clearly_. He’d consoled himself with grainy images, half-heard snatches of noise, furtive glimpses. This was an epiphany… ecstasy itself.

“Don’t try to speak – you can’t,” Overcast continued. “The only reason I can reach you from here is because you’re _halfway_ between life and death… disembodied but still online, in a sense. Open to dialogue instead of obsessed with contact.”

It was disconcerting, talking to a floating, glowing head, but no more so than the rest of the experience so far.

“I want to tell you to stop, Jetfire,” Overcast said, his voice heavy with sadness. “Stop what you’re doing… what you’ve been trying. You’re making the same sorts of mistakes I did – crossing barriers that need not be breached. If you push much further, I guarantee you won’t find your way back without dragging destruction in your wake.”

The image paused, as if weighing its next words. “Remember the alien race that invaded Cybertron?” he asked. “The ones that enslaved us, that Megatron fought off? That was _my_ fault, Jetfire. I was sent on a deep-space exploration mission, and I went _deeper than I was supposed to_. In a lot of ways, Megatron’s rise to power and the war you’ve all been fighting… the war I died in… was my doing. That’s why I became a Wrecker.”

His tone was almost pleading. “I’m better off here – better off dead. Just leave it… leave me. Please.” As quickly as it appeared, the vision winked out of existence.

 _No!_ the Terrorcon screamed silently. It did, of course, no good. Had the vision been real, the veil pierced, then it was irrevocably over. Had it been but a delusion, a side-effect of his predicament, it had passed. Desperately, he wished for it to be a delusion, though he knew it to be a useless hope.

Overcast _was_ the storm bringer… the mech who’d cast the shadow of war over Cybertron. His actions had been like a lug nut, dropped into a pool of liquid Energon and casting ripples in all directions. He had opened the box, ensuring the poison gas had escaped and wrought its fatal consequences. The ultimate goal of Sky Shadow’s long quest was to resurrect a being who’d been the architect of its own destruction.

Shafts of light pierced the gloom, dazzling him. Metal slats parted, unveiling the grisly tableau of his battered, steely body. He barely noticed the nauseating motion, so dejected was he, and winced only a little at the shock of being thrust through his metallic chest plate. Awareness spread through his chassis – fingertips tingled, synapses fired, scaly wings flexed and seemed to sigh with relief – carrying sadness with it.

“What’s wrong with him? How did I screw it up this time?” Downshift asked. “Have I wiped his hard drive? Oh, man…”

“Don’t talk like I’m not here, Autobot,” Sky Shadow growled, eager to vent his unhappiness. “I’m not in the mood.”

Downshift frowned. “I didn’t say anything. Ah well, at least you’re online… and we all have a chance to get out of here.”

The Terrorcon lifted his head. “Out?”

Grinning, the engineer pointed up. The rainbow-coloured walls – barriers against the Transwarp field – shimmered brightly. Lights, running the length of the tunnel’s ceiling, shone down. From the concrete bunker glowed the familiar shine of working instrumentation and, all around, sounded the thrumming of hidden machinery. Best of all, Downshift had behind him a pallet of iridescent pink objects… Energon cubes.

“There were some emergency rations stored in the bunker,” he said happily. “Enough to get us all up and running. The oxygen turbines kicked in the moment the tunnel gates opened – your wings should feel great, and your fellow fleshies should be breathing much easier.”

Sky Shadow nodded. “Then the ordeal is over.”

“The alliance, too.”

They eyed each other warily. Sky Shadow had made his offer; he’d even gone so far as to surrender evidence that could get him killed. Downshift had vowed to consider it, if they survived – they had and, somehow, the Terrorcon knew he _would_ look it over. Neither was in any condition to fight, physically or mentally… there was nothing left to do save tend to their fallen, re-energise their friends, and retreat.

“The stalemate over the tunnels remains,” Sky Shadow said.

“Someone else’s problem,” Downshift shrugged, “for a different day. We have other priorities. Help me with this?”

The Terrorcon pulled himself upright and grabbed a handle. Together, they dragged the pallet back the way they’d come – uphill, toward the exit and their comrades. Downshift was once again silent, though in robot mode this time. His free hand occasionally patted a partly-concealed compartment on his leg… one just big enough for the cylinder.

“I need to look this over,” he muttered.

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Sky Shadow replied.

Downshift looked at him oddly. “Okay, your audio receptors have taken a hit because, again, I didn’t say anything.”

“Oh. Forget it, then.”

They walked on. Up ahead, the real world waited to reclaim them. A place of insignias and allegiances – of purposes beyond the personal; causes more political than altruistic. Sky Shadow thought of Overcast, and of his warning.

He had pushed too far? No, not at all – in truth, he had not pushed far enough. Overcast had explored, had achieved, had conquered his realm. His mistake was not knowing when to stop. Sky Shadow knew, all too achingly well, his limits – had been suspended, like a cat, between life and death many times. It was why he sought help from the enemy. Downshift was a cautious one… his assistance would be both invaluable and _safe_.

Sky Shadow would bide his time, wait for temptation to worm its way into the Autobot’s processor. It would happen, soon enough. The lure of knowledge was too great, and no true scientist wanted to remain, forever, an observer.


End file.
